The Flight of the Nightingale
by Angelmuse
Summary: Erik has fled Paris in despair after Christine leaves him, ultimately seeking solace in spirituality. Why, then, is he unable to forget his angel, completely dedicating himself to God?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I own nothing regarding our beloved Erik, nothing...except that he is my living animus... (ref. - Carl Gustav Jung)**

**Prologue: The Monk**

"In nomine Patris et Filis..." Softly, softly, the words wafted to his mind on the torrid desert breeze, as he sought some shade for respite. He was alone for now, and it suited him thus. Alone had he always been, would forever be, but for the everpresent One whose solace had spared him a lingering descent into madness. Surely _He_ had felt thus, when He had hung upon that cross, scorned and shunned by all, even His own Father...as He bore the sins of the world. The monk closed his eyes agaisnt the desert light, so alien to him, who had long been accustomed to living in the dark, accompanied by his tormented thoughts, by an impossible love...

He had gone without food and water the entire day, and still he did not yearn for them. His only concern now was his risen Savior, who blessed him with the most exquisite visions...His music now played entirely in his head, while he gazed out upon the sand dunes, broken in the distance by the incredible verdor of an oasis that appeared to be a mirage, but, thankfully, was not. He would visit it from time to time, to pray and commune with the monks who lived there. They always wanted him to tarry, but he inevitably found himself growing restless in their company, longing to be alone once more, with his Lord. So it was that they would reluctantly let him go, and he would return to the ruins that were his solitary home.

At night, the temperature dropped considerably, and he was forced to build a small fire to keep himself warm. It was at such times, especially under a full moon, that the visions would come to him. They transported him into the very heart of the universe, where the living furnace of love dwelt, where his heart would fuse with that of a Being so awesome, and yet so human...He had never felt such ecstasy...not even in the arms of she who had been the one longing of his lonely heart...He learned what true love was during these times when he was alone, touching the face of the Almighty.

There were times when his soul would take flight, borne on the wings of music, and he would then pull out the music paper he still received from Paris. Nadir had not forgotten him, and, indeed, was able to visit him at least two or three times a year, as his budding business and now-growing family allowed.

He would pull out the music paper, no longer writing upon it with blood-red ink, but instead using the most beautiful shade of blue-black. He would start scribbling, as heaven dictated. His heart would soar as he wrote, often singing the penned melodies to himself, offering them up to God as his prayer, although he did engage in formal prayer, also. If the memory of his eternal beloved came to him during such moments, he would pause, and engage in meditation, which he had learned from Nadir. It always helped, though not entirely. He doubted that he would ever be able to excise her from his thoughts, but, more and more, his God was an ever-consuming fire within him. He now lived to pay Him homage, singing, praying, and composing melodies for Him here in the desert, in the shadow of the ruins of an ancient monastery...

The Book of Psalms was a great comfort to him now. How was it that he had never bothered to delve into its treasures, when he lived his agonized, miserable existence beneath the Opera House? Ah, if he had then done so! None of the ensuing madness would have transpired! Perhaps he would have never become so obsessed with her...

He closed his eyes in prayer, breathing deeply, and the chill night breeze caressed his strangely twisted visage, as he felt himself being pulled into the depths of his heart, where He always patiently awaited, to shower His infinite love upon the lone monk...

"Ah, my Father," he whispered tearfully, "why did it take me so long to understand your great love for me in the midst of this great torment?" He lifted his head to the starry night above him, as an unsung melody swept through him, together with the beginning words of Psalm 42: "As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, O God..."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I own nothing related to these characters. That said, let me spin yet another new tale about them...**

**Chapter 1: An Uncomfortable Truth Emerges**

Christine Daae sighed once more, as she felt the droplets of rain begin pelting her wide-brimmed hat. Leaning down, she picked up the small, raven-haired boy standing at her side. Regrettably, she had no umbrella, but she could offer him some protection from the elements by cradling him in her arms, underneath her hat. He snuggled closer to her, putting his little arms around her neck, and she smiled tenderly. Reaching up with one hand, she caressed his head, as she murmured soothingly to him. She then hugged him tightly to herself, wishing, not for the first time, that his father could see him. It had been five years...five very long, tormented years.

Cradling the child protectively against her body, she carefully crossed the street, her stylish clothes accentuating a figure that would be the envy of many a young matron. She could not run, of course, although she dearly wanted to, as the drizzle began to intensify into rain. If she slipped, her precious burden could fall, and possibly be run over by a maddeningly careening carriage. She tried to banish such horrible images from her mind as she walked, mindful of these very carriages, yet carefully picking her way across the street. Cobblestones turned quite slippery in the rain.

Reaching the other side, she breathed out in relief, ducking under a ledge just as the rain started coming down in great torrents. Thunder roared from the sky, accompanied by bright flashes of lightning. The child in her arms whimpered, frightened.

"There, there, Erik," she whispered lovingly, running a comforting hand up and down his back. "We shall soon be at Aunt Meg's, my love." She kissed the top of his head. How she loved to say the name of her beloved! The fact that it now also belonged to his son was a double blessing. When the baby had first been placed in her arms, she knew he must bear no other name, for he looked uncannily as Erik his father surely would have, had his face been free of deformity. She was indeed shocked by the comparison. Her love for the child had been especially strong since that day. She had determined that _this_ Erik would not lack a mother's love. But then, she had thought, feeling guilty, the child's face was flawless, beautiful. What mother would not have loved a child with such a face? Ah, but she knew her love for him would have been equally as strong even if he had inherited his father's distorted features.

She had fearfully approached Raoul, two months after the news of Erik's death appeared in the newspapers. She had delayed her marriage to the Vicomte as long as possible, until she was sure that she was with child. Once there was no doubt as to her pregnancy, she felt bound by honor to speak to him, releasing him from their engagement. He could not possibly be the child's father, since he had never been intimate with her.

As the rain poured fiercely down from the sky, the tears suddenly began coursing down her face. The memories assaulted her, beating mercilessly upon her...She could now vividly see Raoul's face before her, as he faced her, speechless, in total disbelief.

_She stood before him, her hands held protectively over her lower abdomen. Her eyes were brimming with tears. Raoul stared at her in shock, anguish beginning to close his features against her. And yet...he loved her. He was trapped in his own devotion to her._

_"Are you...quite sure about this? There is no mistake?" he inquired, shakily._

_Christine nodded her head wordlessly, looking down, unable to meet his eyes. Raoul looked away from her, his own eyes filling with tears that he hastily dashed away. His happiness, his world, had just been torn asunder. He turned from her, and strode over to a nearby table, on which he leaned, placing his hands upon it. Breathing heavily, he attempted to take control of his emotions, which were a mixture of sadness and anger. His precious Christine was to bear another man's child...and not just any man, but a particular man, a monster who had tried to kill him, Raoul, in that infernal torture chamber...How could she have done this to her own betrothed? The notice had appeared in the papers, announcing the monster's demise, and Raoul would now be saddled with his child, who could turn out to be a monster as well! He could not fathom what had brought about this strange turn of events. This meant only one thing: Christine had truly loved Erik, indeed, must still love him! He suddenly whirled on her angrily._

_"When did you...lie with him?" he spat the words at her, and she flinched, shrinking from him as if he had tried to strike her. She kept her head down in utter shame._

_"I...I...thought..." she stammered, trembling._

_"You thought what!" he suddenly cried out, trembling as well, but with a barely controlled, desperate anger._

_She raised her streaming eyes to him. "I...am sorry...Raoul...Please let me...explain..." she was able to mumble this much before she gave in to loud sobbing. _

_Raoul suddenly felt pity for her. Walking over to her side, he grasped one of her hands, and gently led her to one of the enormous, comfortable couches in his suite of rooms. She sat down, her vision blurred by tears, and murmured a "thank you" to him, as if he had been a gracious stranger, and not her fiance. Raoul sat down next to her, gazing at her steadily, mutely, allowing her time to compose herself enough so that she could continue speaking. He felt it only fair to listen to her explanation. He was, after all, a civilized man, even if there were members of the aristocracy, whom he knew personally, that definitely were not._

_At last, she had calmed down sufficiently, and then, she spoke, in a quiet whisper. "I thought that he was dying...as it turned out, he was," she said, with a small hiccup, caused by her violent weeping. This would normally have elicited a tender smile from the Vicomte, but the situation was much too serious, so he totally ignored it._

_"So you're saying you engaged in carnal relations with him because you felt sorry for him!" he cried out, indignant. "Meanwhile, I worried for your safety in that chamber of horrors he devised!"_

_"No! No!" she exclaimed, weeping into her hands. "It wasn't then! It was...it happened when I went to say good-bye to him... for the last time, after I had decided to accept your proposal of marriage..."_

_Christine took a deep breath, and, without looking at him, went on. "I...I...suddenly realized that I had very strong...feelings for him..." She paused, knowing that this would cause the Vicomte great pain. When he remained silent, she decided to continue. She had to get this out, even as she knew that she was hurting him. She owed him the truth, regardless. "He mesmerized me, his eyes...they were so...intense...I could see his great love for me, shining in his eyes..." She had to stop. Dear God, how could he listen to this?_

_"Pray go on, Christine," he suddenly said, quietly. "Nothing can change what took place, so I might as well know everything."_

_She dabbed at her eyes with a delicately scented handkerchief. "I must tell you then, Raoul...I loved him. In fact, I now know that I always will...It was he who sent me away with you, in the end. He knew that he was dying, that he could not expect me to stay in that darkness with him until death descended upon him. But I would gladly have stayed...I very much want his child, even if he himself is gone from this world. I know I will love this baby. It matters not if he has a deformed face..."_

_"He?" Raoul interrupted, bemused by this assertion. "How can you possibly know that the baby will be a boy?"_

_It was then that Christine's eyes began to shine. Raoul noticed immediately, and his jaw suddenly tightened._

_"I am completely sure that it will be a boy, just as I know that he will be absolutely beautiful, no matter what his face looks like."_

_"I see," said Raoul, in a stony tone of voice. A radiant expression was now illuminating her face, and he realized, with a sinking feeling, that he was defeated. He could not compete with this, even if he forgave her. He almost feared what the answer to his next question would be, and yet, he must still ask it._

_"Have you decided on a name for him?" He held his breath, waiting._

_"Oh, yes," she said slowly, rapturously, as her eyes took on a faraway look. "His name shall be Erik."_

_He stood up at once, and walked across the room to a small bar that he kept well supplied for the times when he received guests. He was not much of a drinker himself. Now, however, his unsteady emotions definitely clamored for a good, stiff drink. Violently opening the small door of the cabinet, he pulled out a bottle of the finest brandy, and uncorked it, pouring himself a full shot, which he downed in one gulp. He poured another, and swiftly disposed of it also, then did the same with a third. He was in the process of pouring a fourth, when he heard her alarmed voice from across the room, calling out his name. Heedlessly, he continued to pour, filling the glass completely. Then, putting the glass to his lips, he prepared to drink it._

_"Raoul!" She had gotten up from the couch, and was now walking quickly toward him. "This is most unlike you! Do you mean to drink yourself into a stupor?"_

_Holding the untouched drink in his hand, he turned to her with a sarcastic smile, already feeling the effects of the strong liquor. "And why not, Mademoiselle? Or should I now call you Madame? I could not possibly address you by a more fitting name, dear sweet Lotte, since I consider myself a gentleman!"_

_She winced at these remarks, her eyes stinging. Merciful heavens, he had never spoken to her like this before!_

_He downed the drink, defiantly throwing back his head, and prepared to pour another one. He was stopped by her surprisingly strong grasp on his arm._

_"Raoul!" she cried out, fearing for him. "You must stop this! This is not your fault! What are you doing to yourself!"_

_He allowed her to take the bottle from his hand, all strength suddenly gone from him. She had dealt him a mortal blow. Turning to her slowly, he fixed his anguished eyes on hers._

_"No, Christine...that is not the right question...I must rephrase it for you: what have you done to me, to us?"_

_She put a hand to her lips, trying to stifle a sob. He turned away from her, to walk unsteadily back to the couch, on which he carelessly threw himself, promptly falling asleep._

_Christine was unexpectedly left alone, with her burden and her second impending loss. For a few minutes, she did nothing, but looked steadily at his now sleeping figure. Then, she walked over to the table next to the couch on which he slept. With trembling hands, she slipped his engagement ring from her finger, and laid it on the table. Then she walked across the room again, toward the door. Grasping the doorknob, she paused, and turned to look back at him. A strong emotion seized her, and she felt the tears welling up once more. She could no longer lie to herself. She loved Erik with her whole being. She was carrying his child, whom she wanted desperately. This child was the only bit of him that remained to her. Even if Raoul were to change his mind about their relationship, which she knew was a distinct possibility, she could not marry him while loving another, even if that other was no longer alive. It would also be unfair to expect him to provide for another man's child. Resolutely now, she grasped the doorknob, and turned it. She quietly walked out of the room, out of his life, silently shutting the door behind her. _


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: There is a man who lives inside my soul. His name is Erik. I did not create him, or any of the characters associated with him, so have no legal rights in this regard whatsoever. However, I do own the right to dream...and I can spin new dreams about him...**

**Chapter 2: The Voice of Innocence **

Christine shook her head gently to clear away the memories, at least for the moment. She knew that they would periodically continue to torment her, but this was something she simply had to bear. It was her punishment, she thought in resignation, for having destroyed the two men who had loved her, through her cowardly indecision...

Her little son stirred uneasily, grasping her neck more tightly, and she feathered a kiss upon his forehead. Her eyes grew moist as she felt a wave of tenderness overtake her.

"Maman," the child whispered in a melodious lisp, "why are you crying?"

"Oh, Erik!" she cried out, feeling guilty at his having become aware of her darkened mood. "Maman is not sad, sweetheart. It's just that she loves you so much!" She hugged him more tightly to her, stroking his smooth, ebony-shaded hair.

"Is that really why you cry?" he asked seriously, now partially detaching himself from her, to stare into her dark brown eyes with his golden amber ones. _He even has his father's eyes, _she thought wistfully. She was grateful that he had inherited no trace of deformity, although she would have loved him just the same if he had. But no, his face was angelically beautiful. She wondered if he looked as his father would have, had destiny been less cruel to him...

She now gazed at him in stunned silece. He was showing unmistakable signs of a precociousness that could have come from only one source. Already he had demonstrated a keen aptitude for music. Christine sang to him often, and he was able to reproduce the melodies he heard from her exactly, the very first time she sang them. His curiosity was insatiable. Christine had found herself wondering, on more than one occasion, whether his child's brain was able to comprehend adult conversations. She was sure of the answer now, and resolved to be more discreet when speaking with others in his presence.

"Does it make you sad to see your Maman cry, my little man?" she asked him, smiling through her tears.

"Yes...I don't like it when you cry." His face was so solemn that she felt her heart turn over.

'Well, you don't have to see me cry any more, Erik," she whispered. "Here. Can you wipe away your Maman's tears?" She handed him the handkerchief that she usually kept hidden away in a sleeve of her dress.

He took it from her, and proceeded to wipe her eyes with all the earnestness of innocence. She tried to keep her tears from flowing again as she watched him do this, but it was impossible.

He suddenly sighed in exasperation. "Maman, your tears just keep flowing and flowing!"

Laughing, she gently took the handkerchief from him, and kissed his little forehead soundly.

"It's all right now, sweetheart. See, Maman's tears are stopping now. She is all better!" Attempting to erase his worried little frown, she began to giggle like a little girl, and tweaked his nose. She was finally rewarded by his smile, and then he threw his little arms once more around her neck.

"Come, my little man! You have made your Maman feel so much better! Let us now go to your Aunt Meg's, shall we? You know how much she loves you, do you not?"

He nodded vigorously, grinning broadly at her, and her heart melted. She saw so much of his father in him...but she must not give in to sorrow again. At least she had this precious memento of that one night when Erik the man had tenderly held her in his arms, singing softly to her of his love...a love she had spurned because of her abject cowardice...

"_Je t'aime, mon amour..._" she whispered, casting her gaze heavenward.

Immediately her budding little genius wanted to know whom she was speaking to.

"Ah, my little darling," she answered sweetly. "I was speaking to our angel in heaven."

His eyes immediately lit up with wonder. "We have an angel in heaven?" His lisping voice was full of awe.

She laughed again, holding him to herself more tightly. "Indeed we do, sweetheart. He is always watching over us. He is our Angel of Music, and it is he who has gifted you with your extraordinary talent."

Again he detached himself from her, to stare at her, open-mouthed. "Truly, Maman?"

"Yes, Erik," she replied, smiling at him, again coming perilously close to tears.

"And...does he have a name, Maman?" His eyes were round with more than childish curiosity.

"Yes...he does, indeed. He is named Erik, just like you." She paused briefly, then decided to plunge ahead. "He was your Papa, but he is with God now. And, he is always with us, too, only we can't see him."

"Oh! But does he hear us? Can we talk to him?"

"Yes, of course. You may talk to him anytime. You may not be able to hear him, but he can certainly hear you. He loves you very much, sweetheart."

He frowned as she said this. "But Maman, why did he go with God and leave us?"

She had to duck her head at this, for she felt tears welling again. "You would not understand this now, Erik. Someday I will explain it to you. Now we had better go before your dear aunt begins to worry..."

"But Maman..." She shook her head, smiling tightly, and turned to look up at the sky. The rain had been slackening as they spoke. Holding her son more closely in her arms, she hailed the first passing brougham.

Once inside, she settled little Erik next to her, hoping that he would not pursue the topic. Her hopes were dashed, however, as he turned his serious little eyes on her again.

"I can understand many things, Maman."

Her mouth hung open as she looked at him. She had underestimated him. Now what would she do? She was casting about for an easy excuse to extract her from this difficult conversation that she herself had blundered into, when her own little son incredbibly came to her rescue.

"I can understand that this is difficult for you to talk about, so I will stop asking you questions about it."

She had to stifle an involuntary gasp. Had his father also astounded his own mother in this fashion? She smiled at him, answering as if he were a little adult.

"Thank you, Erik. I appreciate that." She couldn't stop smiling with pride. "Could you possibly become a little boy again, just long enough to allow your Maman to play horsy with you?"

He squealed in delight. "Oh, yes!" And he jumped into her arms with childish abandon.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: Well, as you know, none of us own any rights to these immortal characters, especially one dark, mesmerizing musical genius...Apologies to you readers for taking so very long to update this story...**

**Chapter 3: A Hearty Welcome **

The brougham rolled to a stop in front of a beautiful mansion on the outskirts of Paris. The clouds had cleared away now, at least temporarily. Christine hoped the rain would not return, but there was simply no telling, what with the unpredictable Parisian weather.

Her heart was pounding with excitement. It had been six months since Meg's whirlwind courtship and marriage, and she had been gone for at least a month on a honeymoon that was every girl's dream. Christine hoped that the Baroness de Monclaire was back from her blissful trip.

Christine was handed down from the brougham by the attentive coachman, and she paid him accordingly. She lovingly gathered little Erik into her arms, and turned to the massive iron gates that spanned the two brick columns forming part of the wall surrounding the estate. She had instructed the coachman to wait a few moments, in case the occupants of the mansion were not in.

There was a rather large bronze bell hanging from one of the brick columns, with a rope attached to it. Christine looked at it dubiously, wondering whether it would be heard from the house. A long, stone walk led through a pristinely-kept lawn up to the front doors of the sprawling, gabled building.

With a sigh, Christine put Erik down, straightened, and took hold of the rope. Taking a deep breath, she rang the bell with all her might. She and Erik both regretted it immediately. The sound was deafening. Mother and son clapped their hands over their ears, and little Erik mouthed a groan.

When at last the echoes had died down, Christine took her hands away from her ears, and looked up. She was both surprised and elated to see someone running down the stone walk to them. It was a liveried servant. She breathed out in relief, only then realizing that she had been holding her breath. How she hoped that the Baroness was in!

When the man reached them, she saw that he was really a young boy, perhaps seventeen or so, hardly older than she herself had been when she had first arrived at the Opera House, so many years ago. She smiled at him tentatively. He frowned slightly in response, but then smiled down at the little boy standing solemnly next to her.

"How may I assist you, Madame?" he inquired, as politely as he had been trained to do.

"I would..." Christine had to clear her throat. She was inexplicably nervous. "I would like to see the Baroness, if you please. That is, if she has returned from her honeymoon."

Now he frowned in earnest. "May I request your name, Madame? The Baroness is not in at present, but she normally does not receive unknown callers."

Christine's hopes momentarily plummeted, but she persisted. "You may tell her that it is her adopted sister, Madame Christine Daae, with her young son, who is her nephew." She smiled triumphantly as she said this.

The young servant's eyes brightened considerably, and he smiled broadly. "Madame Daae! My sincerest apologies! She has done nothing but speak of you since her return! She had been meaning to write to you, but we were expecting her back a week ago. She came in last night, straight from the coast." Christine nodded. She was aware that the last leg of Meg's trip would include a visit to London.

Taking an immense key out of one of his pockets, he began to open the immense lock that kept the strong, heavy chains about the bars of the massive gates.

Christine had turned to the coachman, signaling that he could leave, when a jubilant shout drew her attention back toward the mansion. Her face lit up with happiness, for the former Mademoiselle Giry was running at full speed toward them, down the stone walk, screaming with joy. She had hitched up her skirts, heedless of her new station in society, as well as any possible falls.

The young footman had finally opened the lock, and drawn away the chains. He now put his shoulder to one of the gates, and pushed it open enough for Christine and little Erik to squeeze through.

The Baroness was making her squealing way toward them, and Christine was grinning widely, her arms held open. Erik started to giggle. He had always enjoyed visiting with Aunt Meg. She was always fun. She didn't quite look like herself as she ran toward them. She was dressed in such finery!

"Christine!" Meg whooped with glee, unmindful that she was presenting quite a spectacle to the young footman. She need not have worried, however, for he was grinning from ear to ear as he stared at the scene unfolding in front of him. Meg threw herself into Christine's arms, hugging her fiercely as she continued to scream. Christine hugged her back, tears pricking her eyelids. She was so happy to see the girl, now grown to womanhood, that she had shared most of her adolescence with. She was even happier to see that Meg's new station in life had not altered her personality in the least. She hoped it never would.

"Ah, then!" Meg loosened her grasp on Christine, turning her attention to Erik. "You have not forgotten your Aunt Meg, have you, Erik? Come and give her a big hug!" She held out her arms to him.

Smiling gleefully, little Erik jumped into her embrace. She began to cry as she held him, and he was mystified. He was not sure why girls wept at the slightest provocation, even the grownup ones. He knew that tears were sometimes inevitable, although, as a boy, he bravely tried to hold them back. Not that Christine had ever reprimanded him for giving in to them openly, but he was well aware that the men he had come in contact with in his young life disapproved. Since his mother's meeting with his aunt was a happy occasion, however, he saw no need for tears. He suddenly became uncomfortable, and began to squirm in Meg's arms.

"Ah, he is becoming a little man, isn't he?" Meg laughed, as she set him down. "Already asserting his independence, is he not?"

They all looked up as a masculine voice drifted down to them. Christine could not help but feel some apprehension, for it was the Baron himself who now approached them. "Meg!" he called out, as he walked briskly toward them.

He was a most handsome man. Christine remembered how he had proudly stood beside his bride in the small Parisian chapel where he and Meg had pledged eternal love to one another. He was quite tall, with shining blond hair and blue eyes. His muscular shoulders were breathtakingly appealing. She sternly reminded herself that physical beauty was no guarantee of inner goodness. Her Erik was inwardly beautiful, even with his tormented soul...She lifted her chin proudly. No man could ever compare to him.

Christine's apprehensions were totally groundless. The Baron was smiling wih genuine warmth as he drew up to them.

He took her hand, kissing it gallantly. "Madame, I am truly honored. I remember you at our wedding. It is indeed a pleasure to see you again! Meg does nothing but speak of you! And of course, I have had the pleasure of hearing you sing, at the Opera House. I truly regret that you have decided to abandon what many have said was a promising career! I trust that this is a temporary decision on your part?"

At this point, the young footman discreetly and quietly whispered to Meg, "Will there be anything else, Your Ladyship?"

She smiled gratefully at him. "Nothing else for now, Henri. Thank you so much. You may go back to the house."

With a slight bow, he politely took his leave of them, and hurried up the walk. Well he knew that young Molly, recently hired from an English duke's household, but whose French was flawless, would be waiting in the foyer to hear the news. Indeed, as he glanced up at the house windows, he smiled. She hastily drew the curtains back from the window she had been peeking out of. He laughed. Beautiful young Molly. Once he regaled her with his tale, he would demand a kiss in payment!

Christine smiled shyly, ducking her head in embarrasment. She was grateful for his warm reception, as well as for his complimentary comments about her talent. However, she was also mortified that he had brought up the fact that she had given up her singing. Little Erik had been the reason. She had been too afraid that her budding public would discover she was going to give birth to an illegitimate child. Besides, the scandal would have affected ticket sales at the Opera House. She refused to harm her fellow performers' careers because of her shame. Paradoxically, she was not sorry that little Erik had been born. She had a piece of Erik, the Phantom, to care for and cherish. That, at least, was some consolation. So she had gracefully bowed out, and simply disappeared until her nine-month waiting period was over. Then she had begun to work as a seamstress, giving the occasional voice lesson, in a small village not far from Paris. Meg had helped out as much as her meager salary would allow, as did Madame Giry.

Christine looked up again at the Baron, but she saw nothing but genuine welcome and acceptance in his face.

"Thank you most kindly, Your Lordship. Your comments are..."

"Oh, pshaw!" he interrupted with a laugh, to her astonishment. "We of the so-called nobility are not immune to scandal ourselves. Besides, my darling Meg here has apprised me as to the circumstances leading up to your "indiscretion", as you would no doubt call it. Let me say, my dear, that love often makes fools of us all. Do not think that I will think the less of you for it. And do call me Andre, if you please. After all, you're in the family now!"

Christine stared at him, open-mouthed. She had never imagined such an attitude from a member of the upper classes. But then, hadn't he married Meg, even in the face of his family's staunch opposition? She wondered where he had acquired such attitudes.

"It has been wonderfully liberating to read the works of Monsieur Jean Jacques Rousseau, if you must know, Madame Daae," he continued, as if he had read her mind. Startled, she attempted a wan smile, then broadened it.

"Please, Monsieur, you must call me Christine."

"And so I shall, most gladly!" He then turned his attention to the silent young boy standing quietly by his mother's side. Little Erik had been observing and listening with an attention beyond his years.

The Baron bent down to him. "You, of course, must be Erik. I have heard much of you as well. Tell me, are you acquainted with the works of Jules Massenet? You see, I am an admirer of his."

"Oh, yes, Monsieur!" Erik nearly jumped with enthusiasm.

"Well, then, you must assuredly play for us, my lad! And now I say to you as well, please call me "Uncle Andre" from now on!"

With a very obvious wink, he shook Erik's little hand, as one gentleman to another. Erik beamed, and Christine's throat choked up.

Straightening, Andre, Baron de Monclaire, loudly proclaimed, "But come, my lovelies, for I believe that supper is being prepared! You must refresh yourselves, and join us for a repast worthy of the envy of any Parisian chef!"

Throwing an arm about his wife's shoulders, he led the way toward the mansion, Erik and Christine walking beside Meg.

Christine could still not get over her surprise at the Baron's attitude. She hastily threw up a prayer of thanks to God, and to the Angel of Music that she knew was watching over them.


End file.
